


Sad Beneath Their Fantastic Disguises

by mhurm123



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Batman Bingo, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Pianist Tim Drake, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25959877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mhurm123/pseuds/mhurm123
Summary: The soft melody of Clair de Lune was choppy, obviously not a piece the pianist had yet mastered. Bruce smiled at the sound of the learning pauses, watching the boy’s hands jump from one key to the next as his tongue barely poked between his lips.(Filling the 'Father-son relationship' slot on my batman bingo 2020 card)
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1884187
Comments: 4
Kudos: 151





	Sad Beneath Their Fantastic Disguises

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this fic is a little different from canon. Basically, Jason's dead and Tim's parents have already died and Bruce has adopted him fully. Jason still isn't back yet, and this is just a little peak at Bruce and Tim's relationship before everything with Red Hood happens.
> 
> (Title is from Clair de Lune by Paul Verlaine)

Bruce let a yawn take over him as he walked through the halls. He’d just finished working on a case in the Batcave and had decided he’d grab a glass of water before heading to bed. The beginnings of a headache were starting to form behind his eyes, and dehydration wouldn’t help the matter. 

He was in the midst of making a mental checklist of all the things he needed to get done the next day when he heard the soft notes ringing through the corridor. They were quiet enough that they almost didn’t catch his attention, and even then, for a moment, he wondered if it came from one of the kids’ rooms. Just a video one of them was watching, or music they used to fall asleep. As he focused more, though, he realized where the music was resonating from, and followed the sound. 

He peaked his head into the room, taking in the familiar surroundings. The music room had been built for Bruce’s mom, a gift from his dad after many complaints about horrible acoustics (or so Alfred told him one night, years ago). It was rarely used, the door closed, and only re-opened to dust now and then after his parents’ passing. The floor was a dark grey carpet, and the walls were covered in soundproofing foam. Along the far wall was a case full of instruments. Acoustic and electric guitars, a violin he vaguely remembered his father picking up, a cello, a trumpet, and a flute. There were three stands along the left wall, and a small bookshelf holding an array of sheet music tucked away in the corner. The door leading into the room was a single glass pane, and Bruce was sure that if it had been closed, he would never have even  _ begun  _ to hear the tune being played.

The soft melody of  _ Clair de Lune  _ was choppy, obviously not a piece the pianist had yet mastered. Bruce smiled at the sound of the learning pauses, watching the boy’s hands jump from one key to the next as his tongue barely poked between his lips. The kid’s concentration was palpable as Bruce continued to listen, hands tucked in the pockets of his pajama pants. 

Bruce wondered idly when that piano was last touched. Dick had never been interested in music, and Jason’s short-lived music career was focused solely on percussion. (The thought nearly knocked the breath from Bruce’s lungs. He forced himself not to think about  _ why  _ it was so short.) He was almost positive that his mother had been the last person to sit in front of it with the intention of producing any more than a cacophony of noise. Alfred may have done so when Bruce wasn’t around, but the older man didn’t know how to play, as far as Bruce knew. 

He’d thought about picking up an instrument multiple times. Alfred always thought it would be a good outlet, but he didn’t seem to understand music. He enjoyed listening to it-- most of the time, he could be found listening to Liszt or Tchaikovsky as he worked on paperwork-- but he had never been able to get the melodies quite right. After a few bad rounds on Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, he decided music wasn’t for him and began looking for another outlet. 

Bruce had taken up many hobbies as a teen. Photography was another one that didn’t seem to agree with him, along with knitting. He could do the basics of sewing, but it would never become a pass-time he actually enjoyed. He’d never been much into painting--

Bruce was pulled out of his thoughts by a loud, out of place chord. As he refocused on the boy at the piano, he realized why it had been so jarring. Small fists pushed down on the keys, holding the dissonance out for even longer. The sound of sniffles pushed the man into the room, the old door creaking as he pushed it further open.

Tim turned suddenly, eyes wide and glistening with tears. He hid just as quickly, wiping frantically at his face as if it would take away the fact that Bruce had already seen his red cheeks covered in tear tracks. 

“Hey buddy,” Bruce greeted, gently coaxing Tim over on the seat so he could have room to sit on the boy’s left. “I didn’t know you played the piano.”

Another sniffle filled the room before the fourteen-year-old turned to his adoptive father. He looked like a deer in headlights, and Bruce couldn’t tell anymore if the blush was from crying or embarrassment. “I don’t do it often.” 

“Well, it was very pretty,” the man complimented, to which Tim replied with a scoff. 

“I’m not that great, trust me.”

Bruce turned more fully to Tim, his heart pulling in his chest. He hated hearing how easily the boy degraded himself. “Anyone who can even  _ begin  _ to play Debussy like that is an amazing pianist, trust me. This is coming from a man who could barely play Hot Cross Buns.” He gave off a small smile. 

Tim’s eyebrows arched as he glanced at the piano then back to Bruce. “It’s literally three notes, mostly played in the same descending order.”

“Oh, I’m well aware.” The man laughed at himself, Tim letting out a small, nervous chuckle along with it. “That’s why I said you’re a wonderful player. I don’t personally know anyone who could read those rhythms, much less even  _ begin  _ to try bringing it to life.”

Tim looked at the keys in front of him, hands braced on his knees. He cleared his throat before speaking, “Thanks.”

“When did you start playing?” Bruce asked conversationally. He automatically knew it was a mistake as Tim’s shoulders went up, lip quivering ever so slightly. An average person wouldn’t notice the small changes, but the man spotted them without a second glance. He went to say that Tim didn’t need to talk about it if he didn’t want to when the kid piped up before he could get the words out. 

“I was four. Mom wanted me to have a skill. She said it was good to play the piano because music has been linked with a lot of good stuff. Creativity, memory, that kind of thing.”

Bruce hummed in understanding, left hand moving up to peck out a few broken notes before he let it drop again. Apparently Tim hadn't had a say in the matter. Four was quite young to start a kid on any kind of commitment as significant as learning an instrument.

Just another bullet point to add to the list of things he disliked about how Tim had been raised. 

“Do you enjoy playing?”

Tim shifted in his seat, taking an even longer pause. His eyes flitted up and down the piano’s keys like he was looking for the answer written somewhere on the instrument. “No,” he responded quietly, then backtracked. “Kind of.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce asked quietly, hands clasped together in front of him. 

“I--” Tim cut himself off with a small huff, annoyance taking over his features. “I like playing. I like making music and seeing people like it too, but I’ve just… it’s never  _ clicked  _ for me. I don’t--” He shook his head.

“I think I get it.” Tim looked to the man with a slightly surprised look. “You’ve been pushed to play the piano for the majority of your life. If I had to guess, you probably didn’t have much say in what you got to play, either.” The look on Tim’s face told Bruce that he was spot on about that. “You like playing the piano, but you don’t like being told what to learn and how fast to learn it.”

Tim seemed to mull over the observation for a moment, before slowly nodding. “Yeah… I guess.” He took in a small, stuttering breath. “Mom used to be the one to teach me. When I was really young, we’d sit down every day after lunch, and she’d teach for an hour. But when I got older she just… stopped. She hired a teacher and didn’t really care anymore.” He blinked at the tears starting to form in his eyes. “She told the teacher to make me learn Clair de Lune specifically. It was her favorite piece.”

And just like that, Tim was falling apart. Bruce wrapped his arms around the small boy, pulling him into his side. Tears collected on the old t-shirt Bruce wore to bed, but he paid it no mind. “It’s okay, Timmy.” He rubbed the kid’s back in soothing circles. “You’re okay.”

Bruce felt Tim shake his head against his side like he was saying  _ no, no I’m not _ . 

“You’re going to be okay,” Bruce amended. “I’m not going anywhere.” He held the boy until he cried himself out, and even longer. Tim eventually pulled away, wiping the remnants of tears from his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” the boy muttered, not looking to Bruce. 

“Don’t be,” the man replied immediately, moving to stand. “C’mon. Let’s go get a kleenex and some water. You’re going to get a headache.”

Tim pushed himself up, gently closing the keyboard cover before moving to follow Bruce to the kitchen. The kid settled into a chair as Bruce busied himself with grabbing the water. 

“Thank you,” Tim muttered when Bruce handed him the glass.

“It’s no trouble,” he responded easily as he sat down across from the boy. There were a few moments of quiet as he watched Tim drink. “You can use the music room whenever you like. There’s music on the shelf, and I can order new sheets if you’d like to try something different.” He put his hand out in front of him, trying to let Tim know that he was sincere. “If you don’t want to play, you don’t have to. But if you’d like a new teacher, I’d be more than happy to find someone who would be willing to teach you while also respecting what  _ you  _ want to do.”

Tim nodded again, but Bruce could see that his eyes were glazed over. The crying must’ve tired him out, and this conversation wouldn’t help right now. 

“Why don’t we get you to bed?” Bruce stood, waiting for Tim to do the same. 

The pair stopped outside of Tim’s door, Bruce waiting for the boy to get in and settled before he left. 

“Bruce?” Tim asked, the door half-open.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For…”

Tim didn’t finish the sentence, but he didn’t need to. Bruce just smiled at the kid. “No problem, kiddo. Get some rest.”

Tim dipped into his room, the door clicking behind him. 

As Bruce stepped into his own room, a realization hit him. He’d never gotten himself a glass of water.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm alive! Anyone who is reading Bruce Got Therapy Instead, please be patient with me. Someone commented a few days ago and I explained it there, but I'm going to say it here, too. I haven't been in a great place mentally since I moved, and BGT is really important to me. I want it to always have a hopeful undertone, even when things seem like they're going to shit for the characters, and I know I just can't write that right now. 
> 
> For now, the plan is to just work on my bingo card, so you'll still be seeing content from me! I still have plans to finish BGT but I want to be in a better place before I attempt to finish it. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this piece!


End file.
